


It's 'meow-meoow' not 'meow-meeow'

by meinposhbastard



Series: The kit and the pup [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, kitty!Peter, spoiler alert: they hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 07:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16782298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meinposhbastard/pseuds/meinposhbastard
Summary: For the prompt:"Peter pissed Loki off somehow and now he's a cat. And he knew New York City was big but it's down right terrifying being this small. What's he supposed to do? He can't go home. His roommate Ned is allergic to cats. Avengers Tower is all the way across town. He's lost all hope when he's picked up by the most surprising person. (It's Wade) He hasn't been the biggest fan of Deadpool and usually brushes him off but after this they become friends and eventually fall in love."





	It's 'meow-meoow' not 'meow-meeow'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MasterTLA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MasterTLA/gifts).



> I think I said at some point that I only write Garfield!Peter. Well, guess what: this is an attempt at Holland!Peter. 
> 
> This was written in roughly four hours without a break. Used the discussion that followed Megan's prompt in the spideypool discord to flesh the fic out, so I need to thank [thelonebamf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelonebamf/pseuds/thelonebamf/) and [Li Izumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/li_izumi/pseuds/li_izumi/) for the bonus ideas that I shamelessly used in this fic. Last but not least, thank you Megan for looking over it and pointing out things that didn't work! XD

_Shi—muzzle._

His Aunt raised him better than this.

Looking down in the fresh puddle of rain in a dank and deserted alley, he thinks he could’ve gotten it worse. He could have been vaporized like Death Star did with Vulcan, but the God of Mischief had only wiggled his fingers and sparkly green had caught his attention before the world went black.

His whiskers twitch. At least he’s cute now. But between looking baby faced and baby Simba if he were a domesticated cat, he would gladly take the first option. Hey, at least in human form he can be Spider-Man and swing by wherever he wants in New York City— climb walls and— fight baddies.

His ears droop and he looks up and down the alley.

What’s he gonna do now? He has no way of contacting anyone. He doesn’t even know where his clothes disappeared and he’s pretty sure that this is not the alley he was in before passing out.

And there’s no Mr. Mischief in sight.

“Mreow.”

Is that his— of course, he _is_ a cat through and through, after all.

His front paw lifts and hesitates above the puddle, then it touches the surface making it ripple. The sudden crash at his back sends him two feet in the air, heart beating a mile a minute before he falls into a mound of garbage, shrieking with his cat-voice.

Even from a human-size perspective, he always thought that the garbage bags were big, but from a cat perspective they’re _huge._ He emerges with difficulty from the depths of New York’s trash, claws coming out naturally, only to see two people fighting several feet away. His instincts rear up and just like it happened before he’s out and charging towards the guy who clearly has the other one in a pinch.

Without thinking.

Of his _cat size._

The dude in whose back Peter’s claws sink with cat vengeance cries out in both pain and surprise, and Peter snarls and growls (which sound threatening in his head— not through his little mouth) when the man’s big hand grabs him by the neck and throws him off. He lands, surprisingly, on something hard, but yielding, and it takes him a moment to realize that he’s landed on the second guy’s chest.

 _I’m sorry,_ he says, as he half turns, but it comes out as, “meow,” at the same time as he realizes what— _who_ he’s looking at.

“Yeah, he’s a real piece of jerk,” Deadpool huffs, as if that’s what Peter said.

There’s no real anger in his voice, only his special brand of serenity. But before Peter has time to think any more of _who_ he landed on, Deadpool picks him up with a gloved hand (smells of metal and gun smoke and makes Peter sneeze automatically) that is surprisingly gentle compared to what Peter has heard and seen him do. Then, one moment he’s looking the thug in the eye, the next he’s looking at an old man with white hair and black-tinted glasses (what?) cooking pasta, his radio turned up high, and he realizes that this is the second floor.

Peter’s stomach _flips_ like a crépe would, and he’s scrambling his little paws wildly around empty air, shrieking with that cat-voice that he would find kind of adorable _if it wasn’t his own_ as gravity pulls him back.

But Deadpool catches him safely, just to have him toss Peter up again. And Peter understands, he needs both hands to parry and punch (which is unusual for a guy who is always using one weapon or another), but _tossing him like a ragged doll_ is taking it a bit too far for Peter.

Just as he’s reaching the second floor, the pasta man pulls up the window and looks down.

“Nice suit,” he says.

“Zip it, Stan Lee,” Deadpool calls out as he slaps the guy— hard.

Peter is grappling with gravity again until Deadpool catches his tiny body, but he doesn’t make it in time to toss him back up because the thug slaps _Peter_ out of Deadpool’s hand. He howls as he’s thrown into a garbage can. Pain explodes and seizes Peter’s small body in such a sudden way that he doesn’t breath for a full three seconds, but then he picks himself up just in time to hear that familiar baritone again.

“Now you’ve gone and done it,” Deadpool says, the dark edge dwarfing his usually chirpy tone of voice.

Peter turns to look at the scene just in time to see Deadpool thrusting a hand and pressing the gun into the guy’s forehead. The click precedes the loud _bang._ He jumps again, not expecting the noise to be this loud, but he just learned what a fine hearing cats have. He never had a cat and if this is the universe’s hilarious plan of showing Peter how good his life would be with a cat in it by transforming him into said cat, then it’s not going so well.

Then Deadpool is crouching down in front of him and Peter instinctively backs away into the small space between the trash can and the humid brick wall. He doesn’t want to die, not now, not in this form. Or in any other. He still has so many things to do, so many things to learn about and so many people to save. He _can’t_ die!

“Oh, no, don’t be afraid, little one.”

Deadpool’s voice is surprisingly calm and gentle, soothing Peter’s fried nerves.

When you’re this small and the world becomes ten times bigger, usual occurrences like alley fights leave a pretty big mark on you. His cat body doesn’t seem to be able to compartmentalize the fear still running wild in his tiny blood vessels. Wait, why is he referring to himself in diminutive terms? He’s _still_ a human, a man— well, a teenager trying to be a man. He shouldn’t accept his reality that fast.

“Hey, come here,” Deadpool continues, his black hand extending slowly towards Peter. “I’m not gonna hurt you. Please?”

It’s so jarring for Peter to reconcile the mercenary with whom he’s had only a handful of encounters with this man who speaks to Peter as if he is a spooked animal.

_He is._

Slowly and with no small amount of reluctance, Peter steps forward, touching his nose to the glove before he pushes his head into the waiting palm to Deadpool’s genuine glee and cooing noises. But when he picks Peter up, fear assaults him like a cloying, dark mist, and he claws at the gloves with desperation to be put back down. Deadpool complies readily.

“Oh, you poor thing. I scared you back there, didn’t I?” he says, the odd, apologetic tone of voice making Peter perk his little ears up and meow at him. “I know, I know. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have thrown you like you were a ball of tennis. Hey, what do you say you come to my place and I give you milk and shelter.” He cocks his head. “You don’t look like you belong to anyone. No collar.”

_Hey, I belong to Aunt May. Kindly take me back to her._

But of course what comes out of his mouth is just a string of cat talk, and Deadpool chuckles which promptly shuts Peter up just to listen to that sound. He’s heard Deadpool laugh, but it’s always been fake, sarcastic, or pained; he never heard the mercenary laugh like this, like he really thinks it’s funny.

“Okay, let’s make a deal,” he says, milky white eyes looking down at Peter. “I won’t pick you up, but I’ll show you the way to my humble Pool Cave and if you manage to follow me, I’ll give you a treat. What do you say?”

Peter cocks his head, blinking at Deadpool. It doesn’t sound— bad. And even though he’s still fearful of what Deadpool can do, along with what he’s done and what Peter’s seen him do just now, he believes that the mercenary has no real intention or motivation to kill him or do him any harm.

Well, he would’ve shot Peter when he first fell on him, if he wanted to do that, but instead he protected him from the dead guy at Deadpool’s back.

“Deal,” he says as if Peter has spoken, then he stands up, dusting his hands and starts walking out of the alley.

Peter, having small feet _(stop with the diminutive!),_ tires ten minutes into following Deadpool down orange-lit pools of light. These streets are suspiciously deserted, but the mercenary strolls along, whistling like he has no care in the world. Peter’s pretty sure he doesn’t, considering the fact that he can’t die. Once in a while, though, Deadpool looks back at him, most probably to make sure that Peter is still following him, and for whatever reason Peter cannot fathom, he always freezes when that happens, as if by doing that he ensures complete and utter camouflage.

They reach a shabby building in an even shabbier neighborhood, far away from Peter’s, and when Deadpool stops at the entrance, Peter does too, just inside the circle of light from the street lamp.

“Hey, buddy, I live on the top floor, and the stairs are too big for a little guy like you,” Deadpool says, kneeling on one knee a few steps away from Peter. “The elevator hasn’t been working probably since my 80-something landlord was a school girl, so do you think you could bear with me for four storeys? You can sit on my shoulder, if that’s more to your liking.”

Peter considers him; he considers Deadpool hard. Not even he talked this much with and had this much care about his childhood pets’ comfort. What even is this man? Is he really the cold blooded mercenary who kills people for money no matter who they are?

He takes a step forward, then another, and before he can go back on his instinctive decision, he’s climbing Deadpool’s outstretched arm and making himself comfortable on his shoulder. Carefully, the man stands up and enters the building.

Peter is sure that Deadpool doesn’t climb stairs _this_ slow, which makes Peter both grateful that there’s minimal jostling and a bit impatient to get down on the ground. Still, he’s oddly warm by the attentiveness at the end of the stairs, and as soon as Deadpool closes the door, he stretches his arm and is halfway kneeling down when Peter simply jumps from the back of his hand.

Deadpool chuckles and takes off his boots. Peter doesn’t even wait for him to prompt his cat form to make itself comfortable because Peter’s already exploring the apartment. He’s in _Deadpool’s_ apartment. It’s like finally being invited to your idol’s home, if Peter was ever Deadpool’s fan. He will admit that the mercenary makes him curious, especially from the handful of times they’ve conversed on the rooftops, and while fighting. It’s been four years since he became Spider-Man, and one since he met Deadpool in person. He’s known about his existence since before he got bit by the spider, and not once did he see Deadpool hailed as a hero, even if he helped the Avengers. The handful of times the public got wind of it, that is.

Nobody likes a hero who has no reservations killing the bad guy.

“Yeah,” Deadpool calls from somewhere in the apartment, notes of mirth in his voice. “Mi casa es su casa. Makes yourself at home little fella.”

He’s not a little fella, Peter meows.

“Yeah, I know. I need to do a spring cleaning at some point— in this lifetime. Hey, do you like burritos? I’m pretty sure I saw cat vid where this cat was crazy ‘bout Mexican food. He was fat, too. And you could use with some fat on that scrawny body of yours.”

Peter’s testing the unmade bed, smelling weird scents, some old, some knew (and no, it’s not semen he’s smelling), when Deadpool sticks his head in. Peter turns his head to meow a _hey, I’m not scrawny_ at him.

“Right, you’re small. I’ll hold he chilly.”

Peter sighs, wondering how could he separate chilly from what is basically a wrap with whatever Deadpool felt like putting in. Deadpool disappears and he hears the microwave whirring which prompts him to climb down from the bed using the corner of the cover that’s almost touching the floor, and goes into the living room. The place is— not much, but enough for a guy like Deadpool. He has the bare necessities in each of the three rooms. He didn’t see the bathroom because the door is closed and the doorknob is so high up that Peter got vertigo from staring at him for five seconds.

He’s lying on the clothes-free arm of the couch, purring which would surprise him more if he didn’t already expect that, _considering who I am right now,_ when Wade comes with a cardboard container. He places it in front of Peter and then sits down near him.

“Enjoy,” he says. “When you’re done, you’re in for a bath, buddy. You have dried mud all the way from your hind paws to the top of your head.”

Peter’s ears flatten, for some reason displeased at the knowledge that a bath will follow. Deadpool turns on the tv and Peter’s left to try and eat the mildly spicy burrito until he feels like his stomach would threaten with mutiny if he takes one more bite. At least it’s not _old_ food Deadpool gave him.

The bath happens in the bathroom sink only because the kitchen one is full of unwashed dishes and takeaway. Deadpool’s still in his suit, his hand being the only ones naked, and Peter has a couple of seconds time to stare at them before those hands pick him up and dump him in the half-full sink like a dirty rag.

He screeches as if he’s been thrown into a cauldron of boiling water and scrambles to get out of it, but Deadpool’s having none of that, and with surprising patience he keeps Peter there with one hand as he lathers his body with the other, using slow, soothing moves. By the time he washes the froth off, always mindful to not throw water in his ears or his face, Peter’s almost asleep.

He’s bundled into a hand towel that smells of closed space, and taken back to the living room where he’s placed on the couch arm.

He didn’t know that warm burrito and a bath could make him so tired, but then again, he had a tiring, full day, so he’s more than entitled to rest. He’s content and sleepy, so he closes his eyes, lulled by the buzzing of the tv, his own purring, and the gentle hand that strokes the back of his head.

***

He’s not exactly awake the first time he hears it.

The second time, Peter’s sensory input tells him that the tv is still on, but when he blinks, darkness permeates the place he’s in, tawed only by the orange glow of the city lights. This is not a place he recognizes, and he’s up without thinking, which unbalances him and he falls off the couch on a mould of clothes that smell of sweat and other bodily odours, among which blood— old, dried, blood, and Peter coughs and rolls off, his whole body shivering as if by doing that he can shrug off the nasty smell.

Then he hears it again, and the whole situation crashes back: the why, the how, the who.

The sounds come from the open door on the other side of the room, and he walks there on silent paws. Huh, cushioned paws go a long way towards concealing him. Right inside the bedroom, Peter’s cat nose can pick up distress and sweat as well as fear, so he hesitates moving further inside because all those can mean only one thing: Deadpool is having a nightmare.

He won’t chance a closer inspection because he knows enough about how Deadpool got to be— Deadpool to know what would happen if he were to be close to him and wake him up. And his ribs still hurt from the fall he took earlier tonight.

So he does what he hopes is the right thing to do and uses that cat voice of his to rouse the man from sleep— from a safe distance.

It takes Peter to feel like his throat is going sore before the little soft moans and erratic breathing stops. As Peter predicted, Deadpool jolts up, two guns directed towards the wall at Peter’s back. The click of the safety being pulled off sounds at the same time as he aims the guns. A shiver makes Peter fight with himself to meow again. All that murderous intent would be directed at him— no, it’s too much, he can’t handle this, not without his Spider senses and his Spider reflexes and his Spider strength.

He meows.

Deadpool’s breath catches in his throat, and that, more than anything, gives Peter the sliver of courage to meow again, then back away into the living room so that Deadpool can see him basked in a line of street lamp light.

The shaky sigh of relief stabs Peter like an arrow full of guilt would. He wouldn’t have shot Peter. He wouldn’t have. He knows. Deadpool has more control than that.

Also, Deadpool has nightmares, a detail that everybody fails to bring into discussion when they talk about him. He meows again, this time managing to make it sound inquiring.

“I’m okay,” he says, voice vulnerable and breaking too much, too soon, for Peter to believe him. “I’m fine. Just— bad— dreams.” He puts the safety on and places the guns back from where he took them.

Peter watches as the mercenary buries his face (maskless, but too dark to see anything but a round head and some markings all over it) in his hands, breathing measured. Too measured, he realizes, which makes him take a couple of steps back, feeling an urge to climb up there and offer— comfort or anything else the man needs. But he can’t, he has no way, so he meows in that way that every cat that wants something does.

“It’s okay little fellah,” Deadpool repeats, but Peter hears how _not_ okay he is, and his meows become more pointed and desperate. “I’m okay,” he whispers and Peter stops when he hears the bed creak.

But no hand appears from beyond the edge and then the room is silent once more.

It takes Peter minutes to convince himself that Deadpool won’t pick him up, so he trudges back towards the couch, miffed and feeling as if the man betrayed him. But when he jumps up on the arm, helped by the box and other trinkets piled near it, he realizes that if he lies on the backrest, he’ll have a full view of the bed and, subsequently, of the man in it.

There’s no way Deadpool is asleep, he concludes after he stares at the man for enough time that he starts purring softly because he’s comfortable and calm now. Deadpool is silent and dangerous when he wants to be, but no one can make their breathing sound so soft that not even Peter’s fine hearing can pick it up if he weren’t awake. That’s control that no one has when they’re asleep. He can’t see Deadpool’s head, just the silhouette of his shoulder and the covers bunched up between his arms.

So Peter closes his eyes, ears perked up for any sound of discomfort; he’s been sleeping for enough time that now he can look like he’s sleeping without him actually being asleep.

By the time the dark is starting to recede on the horizon, Peter’s churning thoughts have kept him wide awake. He alternated between keeping his eyes closed and staring at Wade’s unmoving body. Fear grips him between one thought about how he’s starting to become hungry again and another that’s telling him that the mercenary is dead, although the rational part of his brain refutes such an untrue statement because it is based only on his inner fear with no objective, outside proof.

He can’t even go there and check because the damn bed is so—

His eyes fall on the various objects strewn across the living room when an idea pings in his head. He hesitates, though. Maybe that’s not such a good ide— nah, it’s almost morning and if his host is dead, then it’s his (cat) duty to alert people of that.

Or so his reasoning is as he climbs down and starts dragging objects and clothes towards the foot of the bed. If he can pile up enough things, he’s sure he’s going to be able to climb into the bed. He’s dragging a hoodie, at one point stumbling over a string and hitting his chin on the floor hard enough to make a pained sort of meow, which, he hopes did not wake Deadpool. He lies still, listening for any shifting, but when nothing moves, he picks himself up and continues his mission.

The multicolored little mountain makes half the height of the bed, which is perfect because Peter might trudge on his four, but that doesn’t mean that he can’t push himself on his hind paws and use his claws to drag himself up.

He’s doing exactly that: balancing on his hind paws and preparing to thrust his claws in the covers when he screeches and jolts so hard that he tumbles back on the self-created mountain, dragging down tees and trousers and the hoodie on top of him.

The only thing that he can hear from under the smelly clothes is a deep chuckle. The first thing that scared him was not Deadpool’s scarred face, but the fact that there was a head there at all. He meows pitifully as he’s unable to emerge from his self-created tomb, and Deadpool (maybe he should start calling him by his first name since Peter ate his food and slept on his couch— and was given a bath) takes pity on him and scoops him up from the clothes, placing him on the bed before he retreats his hand.

The man laughs again when Peter, instinctively, drags his paws over his ears and face because his fur tickles where it rubbed on the clothes and created static. A single digit comes to scratch him between his eyes and then up and down his nose and forehead. Peter pushes into it, purring louder than before and closing his eyes in bliss.

“Were you worried about me, little fellah?”

Peter meows and purrs at the same time and Wade chuckles warmly. He gathers Peter to his chest and they lie like that for enough time to see the sun peek over the horizon. Peter’s watching the man disappear into the bathroom and emerge in lounge pants and a faded green shirt, and Peter trods after him around the flat until Wade sits on the couch and Peter climbs his leg, realizing too late that his little claws have already scarred Wade.

But the man’s face holds only fond amusement, so he makes the last trek upwards without the help of his claws until he’s comfortably nestled between Wade’s neck and his shoulder. The purring starts halfway through a stupid show that Wade seems to enjoy as he eats nachos and sometimes scratches Peter under his chin with his unoiled hand.

***

He thinks Mr. Stark could help him, but when he tries to tell this to Wade the next day, Wade takes him out for a walk and waits with his back turned on a patch of wilted grass until Peter, whether he wants it or not, takes care of his cat needs.

This is humiliating in a way this normal needs had never been when he was human.

So he gives up trying to tell Wade anything. He considers, briefly, when they head back, that he could make a run for it, but he’s small and tires fast, and he has no idea how to get to the Stark Tower without asking somebody for directions. Not to mention that there are big enough creatures prowling the nooks and crannies of New York City to agree with himself that he’s in no desperate need to go through a grinder to get to Mr. Stark.

Besides, he reasons, Wade has had run ins with the Avengers. Sooner or later such an opportunity will present itself, and he’ll be able to get out of this situation. Until then, Wade proves to be a man he wouldn’t be able to meet in his Spider-Man suit.

Case in point, the third day they’re vegetating on the couch (not that Peter is not itching to go out there and fight criminals because from the news it seems like they’ve doubled since Peter stopped patrolling the streets), the news anchor inquires about Spider-Man’s whereabouts, some interviewees expressing concern about his sudden disappearance while others are all too happy to not see him swing by. Wade makes a noise of disapproval at those, jarring Peter out of his cat-sleep, which is a combination between asleep and completely awake.

He licks a small patch of skin near Wade’s ear just to hear the man chuckle softly, delicately taking Peter and placing them both along the couch cushions with Peter cradled in the space between Wade’s bent arm and his face.

Peter scoots closer and starts purring loudly when Wade lifts his chin to allow his tiny body to drape itself over his throat.

“That tickles,” he says, the words vibrating on Peter’s stomach and he laughs at the ticklish sensation, but it comes out as a happy meow. “I’m sure you’re happy right now.” Another meow.

Wade plays with Peter’s tail, which surprises him because that’s a part of his body that he didn’t take into account until now. Even his _tail_ is small.

“But I wonder where Spidey is.”

Peter falls silent.

“I’m sure he didn’t disappear just like that because we’re in a dimension where the readers know where he is. They just don’t want to tell me. And on the thug net there’s no one bragging about catching him. So the question is: where did Spidey hide? It’s not like him to do that, though, you know? He’s all innocent citizens protection mode.” Then, more quietly, “he’s the hero this city doesn’t deserve.”

Peter’s purring stops, his heart starting a crescendo that he’s afraid Wade will feel.

“Aw, why did you stop the purring. I like it.”

Without thinking, Peter starts again and Wade’s hand caresses his back gently which calms Peter.

“I kinda miss him,” Wade confesses. “I know he’s wary of me because of who I am and because my reputation precedes me, but he talks to me as if I don’t kill for money, as if I’m just another person with superpowers that tries to make a difference in this shitty world.”

Peter continues the purring, waiting for Wade to keep talking. The man would never tell these things to Peter’s face. Mask.

“But between you and me,” he whispers, “I wouldn’t mind if the world burned down to a crisp.”

He pauses, Peter’s heart in his throat. He hopes Wade doesn’t mean what those words imply; he proved to Peter that he’s capable of good and of caring for someone else other than him, even if that someone is a cat.

“But I wouldn’t want to live in a world in which Spidey doesn’t swing by in that spandex that hugs his ass in a positively sinful way.”

If Peter would be able, he would have been beet red by now. There’s so much want and longing in that voice that throws his purring off the loop. Wade chuckles.

“Sorry, I let myself be carried away by those voice in my head. I know he wouldn't look at me that way. He’s Spidey, after all. He’s not— mine. And even if he was, which he isn’t, I wouldn’t be that jackass of a bo— of a guy that doesn’t share him with anybody. I mean, have you seen him? No, I know you haven’t, but if you’d see him, you’d know what I’m talking about. I mean, he’s so perfect and badass when he beats criminals and then leaves then hanging outside the police station if it’s nearby that words don’t do him justice.”

A dreamy sigh from Wade and Peter is left to laugh internally at the things he finds out about himself from none other than Deadpool. He’s surprised to notice how charming the man has become in his eyes.

“I would be so proud to be his—” He stops himself abruptly, and when Peter looks up, he has his eyes closed, hand still petting him, but with less purpose. “Not that that’s ever going to happen. I’m pretty sure the guy is as straight as a pole— no, we’re not thinking about a Spidey on a pole, nuh-uh.”

He turns, taking Peter with him, and Peter continues to purr even if he’s not lying on Wade’s throat. Wade’s face is almost squashed into his side, one finger playing with the fur near his tail.

“He’s not— I’m not objectifying him, even though I am. I mean… I wouldn’t mind even if he wanted us to be just friends. I’d want to snuggle him, though.” He pauses, jaw working, and for the first time, Peter is grateful that he’s a cat and can stare at Wade however much he likes without any pressure on him. “Sometimes I want to— to be close to someone, someone I can trust, so much that it makes me want to skin myself alive.” Peter winces internally in empathy. “It’s unbearable, especially when you have a mug like mine that would scare anyone the minute the mask comes off. But maybe Spidey—”

The sigh ruffles Peter’s fur and he meows before he leans over to lick Wade’s nose, wanting to offer the man the comfort he is asking for, but unable to do so. Not in the form he is in right now. Wade smiles and gathers him close with one hand, pressing his side to his face.

“But now I have you,” he says into his fur. “And you’re doing a great job at settling the buzz under my skin.” Then, quieter, “I’m glad I met you.” 

Peter is not okay.

***

On the fourth day they receive an unexpected visit.

Peter is lounging and purring happily on Wade’s chest, postponing his plan to get to the Stark Tower for a bit. He has more important things to do than to return human, namely this scarred man that found solace in his tiny (again with the diminutive!) form. So he’ll be damned if he doesn’t offer as much as he can.

Wade hollers to whoever is on the other side of the door to enter, and that makes Peter’s ears perk up because Wade’s maskless and in his comfy PJs and for all they know, they might be inviting trouble into their home— and he’s not pondering on the fact that Wade’s apartment became home to Peter. One familiar face and one stranger enter the living room as Wade surfs the channels with takeaway chimichangas at his side.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of having such esteemed Avengers in my living room?” Wade drawls, not even bothering to look at Captain America and a huge, muscly man with blonde hair, a red cape and a hammer in his hand. Peter frowns.

“Spider-Man is missing,” Steve Rogers says in his Captain voice and Peter pushes himself up on all fours to Wade’s disapproval because now he can’t see the tv.

“I’m aware of that, but if you came here expecting the red and blue spandex-clad arachnid to slide silently upside down from the ceiling, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

He pushes himself up on the couch, going for Peter to reposition him, but Peter’s a cat and cats are agile, so he jumps on the couch arm and starts meowing to draw Cap’s attention.

“Don’t you care where he is?” Steve asks, and there’s only curiosity in his voice.

“I do,” Wade says, which surprises Peter into falling silent and looking up at him. “But I also know that he’s a big boy and he can take care of himself. If he’s gone, then he has valid reasons for it.”

“He could be trapped somewhere, unable to contact anyone.”

“He’s not.” Now Wade turns and meets Cap head on. “I checked.”

At Cap’s lifted eyebrow, Wade releases a long-suffering sigh.

“Mercenaries like me have a web — hah — of information where we know everything that moves in the underworld. No matter how much you want to keep it a secret, there’s always gonna be that jackass that chirps. If somebody kidnapped Spidey, rest assure that they would brag about it on the web.”

“Don’t you want to know what happened to your friend?” says the blonde man, and Peter is sure he knows who he is, but can’t quite place it.

“Hah, _friend._ The last time we spoke he gave me the cold shoulder, almost kicking me out. I’m not sure if it’s because I made too many innuendos or because I accidentally let the bad guy fall to his death.”

Peter blinks. He didn’t give him the cold shoulder! He was just stressed out because the man died on his watch and he had to get Deadpool out of there before the police and the reporters showed up and things went out of control.

But then he glances at the muscly men and it dawns on him. He meows, unsure if he’s right, and the man’s eyes zero in on him as if he understood what Peter said.

“Yes, I am the God of Thunder”, Thor says, smiling genially. Impossible. Peter tries something else. “Why yes, I did help save Earth from Chitauri. Oh, you helped, too? I didn’t see you around. Where were you?”

“Who are you talking to?” Steve says, throwing him a bemused glance.

“You speak cat?” Wade says, overlapping Cap, wonder in his voice because he’s smart enough to put two and two together.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” Thor replies blithely. “I went on a summer camp on this beautiful planet and the trainers taught me how to speak to feline creatures. I befriended a little guy similar to yours and we explored the depths of the tundra together.” Then his smile falls. “But he was eaten by a snake who turned out to be my brother.” At which point Peter meows in earnest. “Loki had indigestion for a week after that.” He laughs raucously. “Serves him right for eating one’s buddy.”

But then he stops, apparently registering Peter’s desperate meows. 

“You said you’re Powder-Man? Why, I never heard— oh, Spider-Man. I thought you said _meow-meoow_ not _meow-meeow_ , my bad,” he continues, so ignorant of the utter disbelief on Cap’s face and complete awe on Wade’s. “Hello there, Spider-Man. Why are you called like that if you look like a feline?”

But before Peter can answer that, Wade picks him up and stares at him as if he’s presenting baby Simba to the whole savanna, if the savanna was made up entirely by Wade’s wide eyes.

“Spidey?”

He meows half-heartedly in assent.

“He says yes,” Thor says helpfully.

“What happened?” Steve asks, beating Wade to it, so Peter explains.

“He was—” a frown etches on the god’s forehead, “Loki transformed him into a cat after he snuck up on him. My feline friend, never do that with my brother; he doesn’t do well when he’s spooked.”

Doesn’t Peter know that already.

“Only Loki can turn you back,” Thor says when Peter asks. “But we do not know his whereabouts. Unless— please excuse me. I’ll be back shortly.” It’s all he says before he takes off through Wade’s window.

“Go ahead, use the window,” Wade calls after him in jest. “I do that all the time— break my own window to hurry someplace else.”

Awkwardness descends as Wade stares at Peter and Steve stares at Wade.

“Don’t you have spangly shit to do?” Wade says without much gusto, intent as he is to stare at Peter, whose ears are almost flat on his head.

“I think it’s better if he comes with me. Tony might be able—”

“No.” He emphasize that by bringing Peter to his chest, cradling his small body with two protective hands. “That dude’s good with machines, not people. Or animals. He’s safe here.”

“You don’t know that,” Steve says, taking a step forward just as Wade jumps from the couch on the other side. “You have a reputation that puts anyone around you in danger.”

“He’s been living here for four days and nothing happened to him. He’s safe here.” There’s a warning edge in his voice, Peter notes as he blinks back at a frowning Steve.

He meows, putting his two (cat)cents in.

“See, he agrees with me.”

The frown deepens. “I don’t think that’s what he said.”

Peter meows more, throwing in a bit of chirp, disagreeing with Cap.

“He said he’s fine here and you can go away. You’re interrupting our morning routine.”

“Morning— you don’t speak—” he gestures vaguely with his hand, “that language.”

“Yes, I do. He said _meow-meoow_ not _meow-meeow,_ which means that he agrees with me and tells you to see yourself out _._ Right, Webs?”

The only thing that gets out of Peter’s mouth is a flat, “mrreow.”

“That’s what I said! We’re already speaking the same language!”

“Wilson, you just repeated what Thor said.”

“Not true, right baby boy?” he says as he nuzzles their noses together and Peter’s— oddly warmed by the gesture, pushing his head more into Wade when Wade leans back. “See, he likes me. He thinks I’m safe.” Wade makes a shoo gesture with his hand. “So go do your spangly shit somewhere else. Spidey’s safe with me. We’ll be here when Hammer God gets back.”

***

Thor returns when it’s dark outside and Wade’s gone through more than half a list of baby boy’s names to find out Peter’s. His amusement grew when Wade discarded the common ones from the get-go because he reasoned that, for a special boy like Peter, he obviously has an equally special name. There’s a lady with Thor that looks old enough to—

“This is my mother, Frigga,” Thor announces in that booming voice of his and his mom takes in the place with a face that reveals nothing of her thoughts. “She’s the one who taught Loki how to use magic, so she can undo what my brother has done.”

Wade hesitates in letting Peter go from where he’s sitting on his chest, purring as Wade’s scarred fingers caress him. So when he’s placed on the cushion next to Wade, a doubt seeds itself into Peter’s mind as Thor’s mom steps forward and lifts his hands to release golden sparks and wobbly filaments of light.

 _Wait, will I—_ “be naked when,” he stops abruptly as he’s suddenly sitting on the couch, _naked_ and human again.

He scrambles to cover himself, the lady smiling like she was expecting this while Thor chuckles. But between all the people in the room, Wade’s the only one who’s not look at him, his head turned away as he extends a black hoodie, smelling of detergent when he pulls it over himself. It stops close to the middle of his thighs, but it’s covering enough to make Peter sigh in relief.

Then Wade stands up and positions himself between the god and goddess.

“Thanks for your help, your Goddessness,” he says, bowing.

“Oh dear, no need for such formality,” she says, retreating at her son’s side. “It’s the least I could do after what my son put your boyfriend through.”

Wade releases that laugh that’s so fake it makes people uncomfortable. It doesn’t apply, apparently, to other-worldly creatures. Peter stands up, staring at Wade’s back, ignoring the gaze she throws him.

“It’s nothing like that,” Wade says fast. “Thanks a bunch, Hammer God’s mom. Come visit when godly stuff is on the low.”

“I am the God of—”

“My dear, let us depart,” she interrupts with a small smile. “These younglings have matters to discuss and your father will grumble all through dinner if we are late.”

“As you wish, mother,” Thor nods. “Farewell, my friends. See you at the next invasion,” he says as he takes his mother by the midriff and flies off through the window he broke earlier.

Deadpool breaks off into another high-pitched laugh. “He said next invasion. As if Tin Man isn’t working on weaponizing this blue floating globe in anticipation of that.”

“Wade,” Peter says quietly.

The man doesn’t turn. “Anywho. Hope you’re feeling good now that you’re back in your twink form, Spidey.”

“Wade.” This time more firm.

“Do you want pants before I call a cab for you?” He’s already moving towards a pile of clothes Peter knows that are clean. “No need to worry about returning them.”

“Wade.”

“I can always get another ones.”

“Wade, look at me.”

“No,” he sing-songs as he fishes out a pair of threadbare sport pants.

“Please.”

He sneaks a peek over his shoulder so fast that Peter doesn’t even catch it.

“Man, you’re so much jailbait that I can taste the rust on the cell bars.”

“Wade, I’m nineteen.”

“Not on your birth certificate.”

Peter exhales exasperatedly. “My driver license says so.”

Wade stops fiddling with the pants and Peter waits, then the man slowly turns to look at him, clad only in a black hoodie, and he snorts, still not meeting his gaze.

“I didn’t do that on purpose,” he says.

“What?”

He points towards the hoodie Peter’s wearing and when he looks down at the print, he can’t help but chuckle at the kitty with glasses that looks as if she’s surprised she can see with those things on.

“I don’t even know where I have that one from,” Wade says, shrugs and looks everywhere else but at Peter.

“Wade, you can look at me. It’s okay. I saw your face, remember. The least I could do is show you mine.”

Wade snorts. “You don’t want me to go there.”

Peter grins as he steps close to the man who’s still keeping his head turned away.

“You showed me yours, now I’m showing you mine.”

Wade groans, head thrown back. “You had to go there. Now I can’t delete that from my brain.”

“I hope that me being human again doesn’t mean that— we can’t hug,” he says, unsure if he’s saying too much or too little. 

His gaze is boring hole in the side of Wade’s face as his fingertips touch Wade’s tee, the man’s arms twitching at his side.

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Wade says quietly and it’s frustrating that Peter can’t look him in the eyes. “You are—” he gestures vaguely at Peter, “and I am—”

“We’re both consenting adults who crave physical comfort.” Wade jolts at that, but doesn’t move from where he’s standing stock still. “The only difference now is that you can’t pick me up with one hand as easily as before. And that I can talk to you in a way that you can understand me.”

“Hey, I understood you before just fine,” Wade says heatedly, but in the process he turns his head to, probably, frown at Peter.

Peter, the little shit that he agrees he is, simply smiles innocently at Wade as the man freezes once again.

“To quote a wise woman: don’t freeze,” Peter says, mirth in his voice.

Wade’s eyes widen. “Did you just break the fourth wall?”

“What fourth wall? I met the king and his bodyguards a month ago when Tony took me to Wakanda. Shuri is amazing.”

“Uh-oh, disaster alert! Don’t tell me you two will be responsible for the next invasion.”

Peter laughs at that and pulls Wade into his chest, sneaking his hands on the man’s back to keep him close. Wade’s heart, under Peter’s ear, beats so fast that Peter can’t help tightening his arms and nuzzling gently into his peck, careful of his sensitive skin.

It doesn’t take long for Wade to exhale as if he had been keeping the breath in, and engulf Peter’s lithe body into strong arms that have never hurt him.

“It’s good to be able to do this,” Peter mumbles into his chest and Wade chuckles weakly, as if he still can’t believe that Peter would be okay to do this with him.

They migrate to the couch where Wade keeps him close and Peter is more than happy to stay like this for the rest of his life. It feels so good to hug someone that’s not Aunt May; someone he can trust. It’s wonderful that he can hug _Wade_ without reserve now.

“Would you have told me anything from what you told cat-me?”

Wade stiffens where his face is buried in the crook of his neck. Peter's straddling his hips and tracing with his eyes the various objects strewn across the living room behind the couch.

“No,” he mumbles into his skin.

“Then I’ll have to thank Loki when I see him for the impromptu transformation.”

The arms tighten. “Not if I can help it.”

Peter chuckles and nuzzle the side of his neck. He brings one hand up to stroke the scarred head softly.

“You don’t want to show gratitude to the person responsible for the situation we’re in right now?”

“Thanking requires being presentable and being presentable means I’m not hugging you anymore.”

Peter laughs and tightens his arms, letting the matter drop and enjoying the moment.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the [hoodie](https://nalacat.com/store/geek-nala-hoodie/) I had in mind.


End file.
